John the Ripper
by AppleMelody
Summary: This fanfiction is inspired by an amazing Tumblr post I read, by doctorwhoatson. Set after the events of BBC Sherlock's second season, and just before the third.


Chapter 1 – An Unexpected Arrival

* * *

_Three Years Ago_

"This is my note, John." He said, looking at his friend. John returned the gaze, measure for measure. From where John was standing, he looked like an avenging angel.

"What do you mean, this is your note?" John asked,

"That's what people do, isn't it? Leave notes." He replied, and his gut twisted at the desperation in John's voice as he spoke.

"Please. You don't have to do this..." John said, and even though he was at least thirty feet away, he saw tears in John's eyes.

"I do." He replied, and he hung up. Then, he stepped forward. One step. That was it. But it made all the difference.

The last thing he heard was John's yell of "_SHERLOCK!"_

* * *

_Present Day – Three Years after Sherlock's 'Death'_

St Bartholomew's Hospital morgue was quiet that night. Only the dead were there. And Molly Hooper. As per usual she was the last one to leave the morgue, and she had been the first person there that morning. Her job was her life. After Jim, or rather, Moriarty, she hadn't so much as _looked_ at another guy with an intention beyond friendship. She didn't trust herself.

Her job had become rather dull though. Even before, and after, she had fancied Sherlock, she had loved working with him. Never a dull moment, and she had often had to correct him on social etiquette, he had been rather ignorant of that. Once she had started to fall for him she had become quiet, and after she had gotten over him, John had taken her place in Sherlock's personal life.

_John_. She thought. _Sherlock_.

She had faked the DNA tests, the paperwork, even the press. Four months of non-stop effort and three years of grief (she wasn't sure if it had been genuine grief or pity at seeing the others' faces) Sherlock Holmes was dead to the world.

But not to Molly Hooper.

At first she had been sad. Sad to see everyone else sad. Then she had been numb, there was no point in crying over a lie and it was work, work, and nothing but. Then the numbness had faded, it was still nothing but work, but now there was anger too.

A searing pain shot through her hand, and she gasped. Staring down at her clenched fist, she saw tiny fragments of mirrored glass, and before her, a cracked locker mirror. Her the skin over her knuckles had split, and was stinging. But she didn't notice the pain, not much.

For in the mirror, next to a distorted image of her face...

...was Sherlock.

She whirled around and threw her arms around his waist, the top of her head level with his mouth. He put his arms around her and kissed the top of her head.

"You shouldn't punch mirrors, Molly." He said quietly, "Seven years bad luck."

Molly dropped her arms and stepped back, staring at him incredulously, "_What?_" she asked him, with a barely controlled fury, "You go missing for_ three years_, and then you say _I shouldn't punch mirrors_?" She slapped him across the face with her good hand, splitting skin over one of his cheekbones. He looked much like he had when he had first encountered Miss Adler. But of course, Molly didn't know that.

Sherlock stepped back and put a hand to his bleeding face, "Fair enough." He said, "My apologies." He stood slightly away from her, looking like a kicked puppy.

Molly hugged him again, and laughed, despite her tears. They were tears of relief, pain and anger, but she laughed.

Sherlock watched as Molly walked back into the hospital and systematically picked the glass out of her hand, and bandaged it. He watched in silence, still unsure of what to say. A first.

"How..." he faltered. He licked his lips and tried again. "How are they coping?"

Molly was quiet for a while, and Sherlock began to wonder if she hadn't heard him, but then, "Pretty well," she replied, without looking at him, "Considering."

Sherlock had to agree, "So, they're all alive? And well?"

At this, Molly did look up, her eyes sparked with tears, "Why would you ask that?" she said, her voice catching, "You...you didn't know?"

Sherlock bit his lip, he wasn't used to comforting people, and he doubted he'd be any use if Molly _did_ cry. So he said, calmly, "I don't know anything. I only just got back to London."

Molly took a deep breath, "It's John." She said, her voice shaky.

Sherlock's brow furrowed, "What about him?" he asked, leaning towards Molly, "What's wrong with John?"

Molly looked up at him, he was tall anyway, but with her sat down, he was positively enormous. "He..." she stopped and took a deep breath, "He ran away."

* * *

_Thirty-Four Months Ago – Two Months after Sherlock's 'Death'_

Molly had always been an early riser, but even 5:30am was a bit _too_ early for her liking. So when the phone had rung, she had been surprised, but still answered it.

"Hello?" she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes, "This is Molly Hooper."

"Oh, Molly!" Mrs Hudson's frantic voice sounded from the other end, "Thank God you're awake!" she made a few of those whimpering sounds before Molly spoke again.

"Er, Mrs Hudson..." she said slowly, "You _do_ know it's five-thirty in the morning, right?"

"Of course, dear." Mrs Hudson replied, "That's why I'm calling. It's John."

Those two words did more to wake Molly up than a dozen cups of coffee and a bucket of ice water thrown in her face. She set the phone down, pressed the _speakerphone_ button and listened to Mrs Hudson as she pulled in her clothes.

"I came in early because my alarm went off early, I thought I might check on him, maybe make him breakfast in bed as a little treat, what with it being his birthday and all..."

Molly nodded, thinking of the poetry book she had gotten him. _If he wants to keep his girlfriends he should learn what decent poetry _is_. _She had thought when buying it.

"...but when I came into his room at seven he wasn't there." Mrs Hudson finished, "But I _know_ that he didn't go out last night, and I didn't hear him get up. His bed wasn't even slept in."

Within half an hour Molly was at 221b Baker Street, making a cup of tea for Mrs Hudson and calming her down.

"I'm sure he'll be back soon, Mrs Hudson." She said soothingly, "He'll be back before you know it."

But he never was.


End file.
